The Blow-Ins

1

Susannah Hill, London, 1884

James Henry Hill lay dying. He knew he wasn’t long for this world - every fibre in his body told him so. His limbs burned and ached. His chest felt so constricted it constantly rebelled against every new in-take of breath. Molten tears burned deep into the crevices of his face as the battle for breath entered its final throes.

He failed to notice the ticking of the wall clock carefully metering out the rhythm of his remaining time. Yet now it seemed to burst into life ticking loudly. How could he have missed it?

Tick, tock…breathe in…breathe out.

Tick, tock…breathe in…breathe out.

Tick, tock…breathe in…breathe out.

It lifted his spirits to see that Hetty had entered the room. She stood over him reassuringly and held his hand. Susannah, their daughter, was already holding it tightly, but Hetty managed to slip her ghostly hand in and loosened her daughter’s grip.

She bent over and whispered into his ear: -

Let go…

Only his eyes could express his apprehension.

She said it again.

His wife’s whispered words filled his senses with a warmth and contentment he’d been denied for many years.

His body started to feel free from the shackles of pain and liberated from the burden of worry. It generated a lightness of being that confused him.

Overwhelmed by these new metaphysical sensations, he realised that he was drifting away from consciousness… The war of attrition was finally over, and he succumbed to the inevitable.

Tick, tock…breathe in…breathe out…

breathe in…breathe in…BREATHE IN!...

His final view was of the white ceiling as he looked towards heaven.

The final sounds of that infernal clock continued without him.

No breath… no pain…no life… gone.

Philip was the first to notice there were only two of them left in the room. At last, he thought. The old bastard has finally had the decency to give up.

He carefully rolled his father’s eyelids closed. He didn’t want his sister to see the bloodshot eyes staring vacantly.

He had little comprehension of how dramatically their lives would change without his careful guardianship. A new life without the old boundaries would open new possibilities.

He placed his shaking hands upon Susannah’s shoulders in a bid to calm her heaving frame. He understood her capacity for grief. He had experienced it some years before, with the unexpected passing of their mother. Only the numbing effects of laudanum, surreptitiously laced into her milk had soothed Susannah’s restless spirit last time. He needed new supplies: the little brown bottles of tincture were surprisingly empty.

Susannah realised that her father had passed. She had been holding his hand when finally all life had drained away. It had not been within her power to stop him from slipping away – no matter how hard she had gripped his hand.

Not yet cold and yet everything had changed. She liked to believe they were alone in the world - just her and her beloved Philip. The thought that she would soon be usurped in her brother’s affections, no longer the mistress of the house filled her with dread. She was struggling with her grief and sense of abandonment, but she knew she was expected to conduct herself with dignity. Philip’s firm touch soothed her inner maelstrom. She battened down her emotional hatches. Calm was temporarily restored.

They eventually left the bedroom together, holding each other’s hands as if trying to reclaim their childhood.

Downstairs in the hallway they passed the three long-cased clocks standing in a row, a few feet apart. The first had been purchased for their great-grandfather Henry Gordon Hill and was considered a very fine specimen. A family tradition founded on grief; the clocks were dutifully replaced upon the demise of the patriarch.

The James Henry clock was a beautiful mahogany Brockbanks of London. It stood proudly at ninety-three inches tall and was considered to reflect both the stature and character of the man – proud and dependable.

The clock graveyard unnerved. Their ghostly forms were constant reminders of the dead. Disembodied chimes would echo and startle as the hour struck.

They witnessed everything.

They scorned.

They judged.

They dominated even in death.

The mistresses of the house were almost forgotten. They had the occasional portrait or faded photograph, but nothing as imposing as a chiming mahogany monolith.

What traces of her existence would Susannah leave? The prospect of dying or leaving the security of her home made her shudder.

She had barely left the confines of the house since she was fifteen – a consequence of her mother’s fatal accident. Witnessing her absent-minded mother step out in front of a speeding horse and carriage permanently altered her perspective on the safety of the outside world.

These deep-seated feelings of anxiety were consolidated when her beloved father had been beaten and robbed in the street. He never recovered from the brutal shock of a savage attack …all for the price of his dented timepiece. The police had failed to apprehend the assailant. With no witnesses they offered little hope of an arrest.

Outside there was danger, a place where only violence and poverty flourished. Susannah had no desire to leave the safe perimeters of her home. No desire to engage with the outside world or society in general. No desire to walk in the park or visit friends. She had no friends. She wore her loneliness with a sense of pride.

The mere thought of leaving the house filled her with a deep, sickening sensation. Her frantic heart would beat so loudly that she could no longer understand her own thoughts. Her world would spin, her hands would perspire.

Philip led her to James Henry. He placed his sister in front of him facing the clock. He remained unnaturally close behind pressing his body firmly against hers. He placed his hands on top of Susannah’s and like a carefully rehearsed dance of intimacy they stopped the hands of the clock at two twenty-five p.m.

Susannah reached down with both hands to the shaft of the pendulum stopping it swinging decisively to and fro. She could feel the resistance as she held it firmly in her hands. She applied more pressure to stop the mechanism from swaying again. The clock continued to resist.

Philip’s body pressed further into her back and buttocks. She grew increasingly uncomfortable. Were the ancestors watching?

I can’t, I feel like I’m smothering him. She withdrew herself to a safer distance.

Philip brushed her rejection aside and held the pendulum firmly until it finally stopped.

It’s only a clock for heaven’s sake! Philip always knew how to belittle.

Susannah moved away and observed the brown paper wrapped article in the corner of the hallway.

Is that what I think it is? she asked suspiciously.

Philip walked over to the item and started to pull off the wrapping.

This is our new master of ceremonies! he announced proudly.

She stared at the new timepiece.

It left her cold.

You can’t replace him that easily…

Don’t be so melodramatic! It’s a wedding present from Cecily’s father - it arrived this morning.

Well I don’t want to see it. You should send it back!

Philip had no intention of continuing such a disagreeable discourse and reached for his hat and coat.

That’s it, turn your back on me…you always do!

Necessity, not pleasure! I need to notify the authorities of father’s death. I shall pay the Pryors a visit out of courtesy. They should hear the news from me rather than from hearsay.

He had managed to untangle himself from a potential conflict of interest between his ever-demanding younger sister and his future in-laws, just by ignoring the offending request. He gave Susannah a brotherly kiss on her forehead and left her side before she could use any other forms of emotional blackmail to prevent him from going about his business.

Another abandonment, the second of the day. Guilt was setting in. Susannah knew her emotions should be centred on her father’s passing and yet the thorny subject of Philip’s betrothed needled her. He was delusional if he thought that she would ever accept Cecily as her ‘sister’ or her newly bestowed authority at Grove House.

She seethed. The unwanted addition to the ancestral collection unnerved her. The thought of ever losing her brother was unbearable - a world without Philip inconceivable, unnatural. She wanted him to reconsider his engagement. She favoured the siblings sharing their dotage, untouched by the outside world and free to conduct themselves how they pleased.

She had conveniently forgotten her own betrothal to Captain Usbourne. A contract born out of financial convenience, without love or her consent. Both parties seemed reticent about fulfilling their engagement and both were secretly relieved when another shipping commission turned up to prevent the marriage. They corresponded regularly, but Susannah never believed there was any real prospect of marriage owing to their mutual lack of commitment.

Hit by exhaustion and the urgent need to lie down, she ventured back upstairs. Her father’s bedroom door was left ajar. A childlike need to speed pass without looking was supressed. She was wary of her ancestors’ disapproval.

She stood transfixed at the object that was once her father. All life had been sucked out as if through a straw – only a pale and fragile husk remained.

Plagued by a spiteful, nagging pain in her head, she needed the sanctuary of her mother. Hetty’s room had changed little since her untimely death. No overnight guests were permitted. Nothing was removed but the dust and the occasional dead moth. This was no shrine to the dead, no temple to the matriarch.

Part sanctuary, part camera obscura, this room was Susannah’s window to the world. She would spy on the coalman as he delivered his dirty trade. She would watch the race between the gardeners as they scooped up the black gold left by the horses.

The roses would be good this year.

Then there were the ladies of The Crescent, promenading in their finery, their air of sophistication undermined by a lack of care wading through the horse piss. They were oblivious to the staining of their finest from Paris, although the servants took note.

It was obvious.

Filth and danger respected no boundaries.

This self-inflicted exile was comforting, protective…essential. A loneliness worn with a misplaced sense of pride. It was jarring.

The deep red velvet curtains were drawn close. Now womb-like, the room seemed smaller, darker, safer. She unfastened her dress and loosened her stays. She collapsed without grace onto her mother’s soft bed and started to drift into a deep and much needed sleep. Untouched by emotion, Susannah lay unconscious for many hours…

***

Full of Pryor’s brandy, Philip returned to find the house devoid of company. He placed a small wooden box of tinctures on the table and prepared a sample to take to his sister.

He found Susannah’s bedroom door was open – the room empty.

He called out to her, but there was no response. He continued his search with increasing urgency.

Of course she was with mother, laying on Hetty’s bed, deep in slumber.

His own self-awareness recognised that he needed her too much.

He placed the oil lamp on the side table and let it cast its soft, wavering light invitingly over her body. Susannah’s peaceful slumber exposed her vulnerability. She unknowingly needed protection.

Boots were quietly kicked off. His waistcoat removed. He slid down beside her and drifted into an uneasy, alcohol-fuelled oblivion.

Susannah was the first to stir. Surprised to find her brother next to her, breathing heavily, but not quite snoring.

Philip woke, turned to face her, and smiled. He gently pushed her hair away from her face and curved it around her ear. He studied her brown eyes pained with sorrow. He bathed in their weakness. It was mesmerising. Philip drew her close to him and gently placed his hands either side of her face.

He kissed her. First in a gentle, brotherly way and then with more purpose. Fraternal or something deeper? Something darker, something dangerous?

He gently traced the edges of her closed eyes with his wet tongue. He kissed her eyelids tenderly one, by one. His tongue prised open her lips.

Moved or confused? Both. He took her lower lip and teased. She recoiled as he started to bite.

He pressed close into her as she stiffened with horror.

Susannah started to push away in fear of immediate violation.

Why was he doing this? She didn’t understand, maybe the blame was hers?

Her body prickled with terror as he kissed the contour of her neck. He brushed the straps of her camisole from her shoulders and continued to kiss her with urgency. His bliss was intense and sublime - his need was overwhelming.

No matter the consequence. Power was always in his possession, a compelling aphrodisiac. Her fear fuelled his desire, her objection an invitation.

His loss of control, his reasoning was overpowering. He suddenly stared into the dark pit of eternal self-hatred. He was diving into murky waters forever trapped by the unbreakable stranglehold of guilt.

He stopped. In urgent need of an exit-strategy he slapped her hard across the face. Whore! he screamed, You fucking whore!

He scrambled off the bed in an obvious state of arousal. He didn’t dare look at her. He didn’t want her to see the look of self-disgust written upon his face.

He left her confused, ashamed and so alone.

Her ears rang from the intensity of the slap. A sense of utter betrayal that would sting for decades.

***

Four days of avoidance and excruciating self-reproach.

Four days to ruminate and reformulate, then a summons to his study.

Susannah had been draping squares of black silk over the clock faces of her ancestors. She could no longer bear their judgement. Her shame too deep. Determined to remain contrite and composed, she entered the room in silence.

That can never happen again! You cannot stay near me…There is something deeply wrong with you… he stated, delegating all responsibility.

The severity of his contempt struck her harder than when he slapped her. She bit her lip and started to fiddle with her bracelet.

He then moderated his voice in a more practical, measured tone: -

Our father will be buried the day after tomorrow. On Sunday the banns will be read for both our marriages. Both parties shall be married at the earliest convenience. You will then join your husband to live in Devonshire on his family estate. You will no longer have any connection with Grove House. Any communication will be through my wife and, you will not return here under any pretext.

And what if I refuse? Her phobic considerations outweighed her fear of violation, filling her with a false sense of option.

Philip grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her close.

If you refuse, I shall have you placed in an institution. He was determined to expel this she-devil from his life.

Marriage or Bedlam, it’s your choice. His tone of menace was hard to ignore. He gave her hair a final tug and then released her.

His spite twisted and filled her with rage. She was shocked by her capacity to loathe. All her life was spent loving him. He was the saviour of the family; he had saved them all from ruin – her mother often told her so. He was brave, clever, and handsome - a pedestal so tall, it was dizzying.

I hope your shame dies with you! she hexed.

Simple words that cut deep. Her look of betrayal would forever haunt him. He would never be able to look at Cecily without seeing Susannah. Their future intimacy forever ruined by his shame. His feelings permanently altered. Their marriage empty.

Susannah had no intention of providing Philip with any more ammunition. She calmly left him to wallow in his own self-loathing. Her head was filled with his vile rhetoric. The ancestor’s disapproval echoed with increasing intensity.

Unnatural whore!

She-devil!

Their judgmental utterances screamed to a heady crescendo.

She retreated hastily to Hetty’s room. The door was safely slammed. The cacophony of profanities instantly ceased.

She placed a chair against the door to stop the outside world from seeping through. She could trust no one. Memories of her beloved parents were contaminated by her brother’s betrayal. She buried herself under the bedding.

If only she could return to Hetty’s womb.

2

Eliza Barton, Devonshire, 1898

Eliza had avoided the village for years. She was unwelcomed -permanently uninvited. Her ailing father had begged her to run an errand for him – to pick up a parcel from Marshalls. Not long for this life, she could hardly refuse. He was her one true ally, her protector and salvation.

Out of his six surviving children, Eliza was the one Tom Barton worried about the most. He spent his final days fretting how she would cope without his protective guardianship. He could depend on Becky and Percy to stand by her, but he wasn’t so sure about the others. Weak willed sons with money grabbing wives were his main concern.

Village memory was harsh and unforgiving. Judgement was final and without clemency. This sister of Berry Down had betrayed the laws of humanity and deserved to be cast out. Eliza’s apprehension was completely justified.

She left the protection of the farm and stood at the top of the hill. This had always been her favourite view. The chequered oblongs of moss green and jade marked the boundaries of the strawberry fields on this south-facing hill. These precious strips of land were rich and bountiful. A welcome financial lifesaver that helped those who struggled through the leaner months.

Today the strips were shrouded in mizzle that hung depressingly in great clumps of opaque dampness. Normally you could see from Top Town down to Seaside and on a good day you could see over to the Welsh coast. But for now, the village’s beauty lay secretly hidden and would wait for the return of spring before revealing its treasures again. Eliza passed the church and graveyard which was full of her departed kindred including her beloved mother. One day she hoped she would join her and the way she was feeling today she hoped it would be soon. The fine damp mist was beginning to seep through her clothes making her feel slightly shivery and her fair, curly hair was starting to frizz at the edges. She pulled her shawl across her chest firmly in a bid to conserve heat, but it didn’t work. She still felt chilled, damp, and miserable and was keen to get the trip to the village over as quickly as possible.

There were plenty of villagers in the High Street going about their business. Harassed mothers shopping for groceries with their little ones and workmen that were coming out of the Pack after a crafty mid-morning pint.

As Eliza progressed down the cobbled road carefully tiptoeing past various deposits of excrement, she became aware of how quiet everyone was. The villagers had stopped greeting each other and she became more aware that she had been noticed. A mother with her daughters past by hurriedly and Eliza heard her forcefully instruct her girls not to look and to hurry by.

At first Eliza thought she was imagining it, but as she carried on through the High Street, she realised that she was being avoided. People started to cross to the other side of the road or would turn their backs on her. As she stopped to look at the window of the toy shop someone tapped her on the shoulder. A pregnant woman with a battered pram with two infants top-to-toe looked her straight in the eye and spat in her face viciously.

Bitch! she screamed and then sped away with her precious cargo.

Eliza was used to public humiliation and had become accustomed to such an outburst. The attack merely hardened her resolve to pick up her father’s parcel and to quickly retreat home never to return. She wiped away the clotted green slime from her face and proceeded directly to Marshall’s.

As she entered the shop she noticed two women deep in conversation, one of them was her Aunt Wynn. Both women stopped in mid-sentence as Eliza approached the shop counter, Wynn had no intention of communicating directly with her niece in public. Sarah Marshall, a short, stout, charmless woman breezed in, surveyed the ensemble, looked Eliza in a disapproving manner and shouted for her husband. Jack Marshall made an instant appearance not wishing to risk the wrath of his wife by loitering unnecessarily.

Take her out back, I don’t want her in the shop, she said with no discretion, I thought you said the order was for Becky Barton.

It is. She came in a couple of weeks ago, she didn’t mention anything about this one coming to pick it up. replied the down – trodden tailor. He walked over to the shop floor and politely escorted Eliza into a back room. As she was leaving, Eliza overheard Wynn say to Sarah and the other woman,

She maybe kin, but she shouldn’t have got away with it. They should have let her swing at Heavytree and left to rot.

The image of Eliza’s rotting corpse swinging from the gallows gave the women a short-lived snap of satisfaction.

Eliza wanted to protest her innocence and let the gossips know how wrong they were, but instead she contained the strength of her feelings in a bid to escape as quickly as possible. Eliza didn’t want to make a scene, she never did - and it was part of her problem.

The tailor hurried to retrieve the order from the adjacent stockroom. It was a plain mid-brown wool jacket with discreet leg-o-mutton sleeves, a matching skirt, and a plain, undecorated, white cotton blouse. The ready outfit was obviously the result of a collaboration between her sister and father.

Eliza had always felt uneasy in the presence of Jack Marshall, he was too sycophantic and leering. She asked him to wrap the goods up so that she could hurry home. Jack insisted that she tried the clothes on for good measure. Eliza reluctantly agreed and disappeared into the only changing room. She could feel his lechery beyond the safety of the heavy curtains as he eagerly waited for her to dress. She brushed by him as she made her way to the mirror. Despite the be-frizzled state of her hair she looked quite presentable. The jacket sleeves were a little long. A detail that did not escape Mr. Marshall, who hurried over with pins in mouth to fix back the offending surplus. She felt a distinct broach of her personal space and felt her back straighten in response to the proximity of his person. She could smell the kippers he had for breakfast and the acrid odour of Woodbines on his breath. The nauseating combination made her lean backwards. As he leaned forwards, they both lost their balance and crashed into a pile of newly delivered boxes together. Eliza’s instant reaction was to kick out at the assailant in panic. Sarah’s prompt return to the back room resulted in an instant resolution of Marshall’s position and left Eliza looking stupid and undignified.

Get her out through the yard when she’s finished. She’s not coming back through here, she demanded.

Eliza scrambled to her feet and returned to the changing room and quickly put her old clothes back on. She presented him with a pile of fabric that he proceeded to fold and to parcel up into a neat package held together by string. They exchanged embarrassed apologies and niceties in equal measure, and she left unceremoniously via a dark passageway at the back of the shop parallel to the High Street.

Eliza stopped a moment to take a deep breath and recover from her ordeal. Tears were involuntarily running down her face. She mopped them up with the same handkerchief that she cleaned the clotted green slime and returned it to her pocket. Eliza made a vow to herself that she would never go back to the village again and trudged her way back to the safety of the farm.

***

Eliza continued to replay the awkward events of the morning. She became increasingly irritated by her lack of retaliation.

Why was she always so polite when people were so unkind?

Frustrated by all her would-be witty retorts, her tormentors remained unchallenged. Her replayed mumblings were clearly audible, and she started to sound like the village mad woman who lived in the caves.

Eliza resolved to regain her composure. She didn’t want her father to know that she was publicly bullied by his own sister – it would only cause him unwanted distress and would cause further trouble in the family.

As she walked up Lime Kiln Hill, she noticed a small